Lost

 Lost

By Bobby Neal Winters

How can a man be born when he is old?

It is a question that comes echoing down to us from history.  Nicodemus asked Jesus, and Jesus gave him a good answer.  I suspect Nicodemus had some idea of the answer, and if so Jesus would know that.  Sometimes smart people ask the questions they know the answer to already as a test.

This is a piece of scripture I am very familiar with.  Since I grew up as a Baptist, I am doubly familiar with it.  It has taken me until now, after years of contemplation and years of study, to understand it.  Maybe.  Maybe I understand it.

There is a word, an adjective, that is applied to a lot of things: Lost.  It can be applied to objects. I lost my wedding ring a year ago, and I’ve not found it yet.  It still exists.  It’s still out there.  But my direct connection with it has been severed. I don’t know where it is.

“Lost” can also be applied to people.  It takes on different nuances when applied to human beings. Sometimes it means the lost person does not know where he is.  Or maybe that should be put, he knows he is “here,” but he doesn’t know where “here” is.  And the “here” where he is at is not the place where he wants to be.

There was once a young man who left his family with some of his daddy’s money.  He spent it all and wound up wallowing with the hogs, eating their food.  He was in a place where he didn’t want to be.  He knew where he wanted to be, but only had hope that he could get back there.  He had to move himself to the place where he might be found.

That is the difficult thing.  Swallowing the pride.  Admitting not only that you are not perfect; admitting that you are wrong.

This is especially true when you are old, and when you’ve been wrong in the same way all of your life.  In my perennial favorite Christmas story, Charles Dickens “A Christmas Carol,” Marley’s ghost has a long line of bank boxes chained to him.  Marley was lost and died that way.  He had his old way of doing things chained to him.  Had he changed his ways while he was alive, the bank boxes would’ve been removed from him.  But--listen to this bit--he loved the bank boxes and didn’t want to let them go.

So he didn’t.  He kept them. Now he has them. Forever.

Change can be gradual.  I love the change and small dedicated effort can make. The mighty oak tree I see out my window has grown from a tiny acorn over the years with only air, water, and sunshine.

But we had to plant it in a new place for that to happen.  A squirrel had planted it up against the house.  The only thing for it there was eventual death. We dug it from the ground; it died to its old place; we planted it in a good place; it was born again.

It is straight, tall, and a blessing to all.

To become what it could be required a drastic change.

It was easier for the tree than it is for a human being.  My wife and I did all the deciding.

People are harder. When they are lost, they often won’t admit it.  It’s the world that is wrong.  Everyone is wrong but them.  They create a tiny hell for themselves, but they believe it is the whole world.  And they will work to drag everyone else into it with them.

Jewell asked, “Who will save your soul, if you won’t save your own?” 

How can a man be born when he is old?

Bobby Winters, a native of Harden City, Oklahoma, blogs at redneckmath.blogspot.com and okieinexile.blogspot.com. He invites you to “like'' the National Association of Lawn Mowers on Facebook. Search for him by name on YouTube. )